Handchuffed
by poisongirll
Summary: My take on the handcuffed thing. Sherlock takes John a bit too literally when John says that they need to learn to work better as a team.
1. Chapter 1

More to come soon, would love to hear your thoughts!

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><p>John sighed. It was his own fault, really. He had, after all, told Sherlock that he needed to learn to rely on him more…assured Sherlock that he wasn't going anywhere…that they were a team. Though, in his defense, he hadn't expected the mad bastard to take him so literally as to actually <em>handcuff <em>the two of them together. The aftermath of the night with Moriarty at the pool had included what Mrs. Hudson would term 'a little domestic' between him and Sherlock. Once he and Sherlock had recovered from the minor injuries they had sustained during the incident, and John had gotten past the all encompassing relief he felt that Sherlock was okay (and as a side note that he himself was okay), he had let loose his less positive emotions on Sherlock.

As Sherlock lay in his usual fashion on the couch in the flat that they shared, no doubt lost in his own contemplation of the events, John had lectured him about how incredibly stupid it had been to go after Moriarty alone, how he'd thought that Sherlock was finally starting to trust him, to rely on him, then this? Didn't Sherlock realise how important it was that he stay alive and keeping doing what he's so good at? Sherlock had continued to lie motionless on the couch, his fingers steepled, letting John's rage flow over him without a word, making John even angrier. Then all of a sudden he had risen, giving John a strange look that John couldn't even begin to read, before retreating towards his bedroom. John was momentarily flabbergasted before remembering that he was annoyed.

"Sherlock, you can't just walk away when I'm trying to…" he had started, but something about Sherlock's face when he re-entered the room and approached John at the window abruptly shut him up.

Sherlock looked…not quite angry…defiant perhaps? But there had been something else, some unreadable quality in his expression that hinted at…amusement? Mischief even? And then Sherlock produced something shiny from one hand and, before John knew what was happening, they were handcuffed together. John had barely had time to react before Sherlock had shifted slightly towards the window, opened it a crack, and thrown a small object out of it. It took John several moments to adequately express his disbelief and outrage at the unexpected situation.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he finally managed to splutter.

Sherlock's face was a picture of calmness, though still with that barely identifiable hint of amusement.

"Was that the…key…that you just threw out the window?"

Sherlock gave John a small, smug, _infuriating_ smile that made John momentarily want to punch him.

"You said you wanted us to work as a team, John. I'm merely attempting an experiment that will enable us to learn to work better together. Think of it as a team building exercise."

Ordinarily when Sherlock frustrated him John simply left the room, or the flat, rather than allow himself to become worked up. But this time he couldn't do either. He decided that the best way to handle it was by saying nothing at all. Eventually, John somehow managed to remain calm enough to convince Sherlock that they had to go downstairs to look for the key. Sherlock, who seemed to sense that John was on the edge of a very explosive reaction to his 'experiment', wisely agreed. John wasn't altogether surprised when their search turned up no results, and after twenty minutes of searching in the bitter cold, moonless night, John's exhaustion and numb extremities got the better of him and he conceded that they go back inside and try to get some sleep. Sherlock had agreed, still looking smug but knowing better than to further provoke John right at this moment.

Now John was lying in his bed, his wrist uncomfortably twisted in the handcuffs beside Sherlock's, wondering if these things really happened to him or if meeting Sherlock and everything since was all some kind of extremely vivid hallucination.

"John."

Sherlock's deep voice beside him pulled him from his reverie. John huffed and turned his head slightly in Sherlock's direction, but he was unable to make out his flatmate's expression through the velvet darkness of the room.

"What?" he replied in a tone of voice that he hoped reflected his frustration and exhaustion.

Sherlock paused.

"You're still angry with me," he stated.

"Another brilliant deduction," John snapped back at him.

"Look, I'm…"

Sherlock paused and sighed, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. Since when has Sherlock ever have trouble with words, John asked himself. For a split second John wondered if he was being too harsh, but he said nothing.

"I'm _sorry_, John."

John felt briefly shell-shocked at the genuine tone of Sherlock's voice. He had never heard Sherlock apologise before. Well, not in words at least. But he recovered quickly.

"Then why did you do it, Sherlock?" John asked, his tone a lot gentler than he'd intended it to be.

"No, I don't mean this," Sherlock replied, vaguely moving their handcuffed limbs to indicate the handcuffs. "Though I suppose I'm sorry for this too, but only because it's bothered you so much for some reason."

John ignored this last remark.

"What then?"

Another pause.

"For what happened at the pool. For not telling you my plans," came Sherlock's reply through the darkness.

Now it was John's turn to be lost for words. He felt most of his anger slip away, despite his determination to cling to it. He was slowly discovering that it was infuriatingly difficult to stay mad at Sherlock for any decent length of time.

"Just…don't do it again, okay? There's no point in us working together and being…friends…if we can't rely on each other." He paused, waiting for a response that didn't come. "Now let's just try to get some sleep. We can sort this out tomorrow." He gestured to the handcuffs, and rolled onto his side to try to get into a more comfortable sleeping position.

For a moment John's dark bedroom was silent, and then the peace was again broken by Sherlock's voice.

"Just so you know- I do consider you to be my friend, John. My only friend."

It was a simple enough statement- spoken in the same sensible tone that Sherlock often employed- but John froze, his throat suddenly feeling tight. He cleared it, licked his lips, turned onto his back again. His felt his face grow warm and was suddenly immensely relieved that the room was too dark for Sherlock to deduce his reaction to the words.

"Good to know," he finally said, affection painfully evident in his voice. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

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><p>To be continued…<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

John awoke with the instant, all encompassing feeling that something wasn't right. It wasn't a feeling of immediate danger...more that there was something bothering him. It only took him a moment to remember what. His self-proclaimed-sociopath friend who's latest crazy experiment involved handcuffing the two of them together. He gazed over at Sherlock, who was still sleeping peacefully, and it was only then that John noticed that some time during the night they had linked hands. And they were lying close together. Far too close, in fact. John's breath hitched slightly as he stared at their intertwined hands for a long moment— at Sherlock's long, slender fingers wrapped within his own. He should move his hand, his brain told him repeatedly. But he didn't want to wake Sherlock— the man needed sleep after everything that had happened in the past few days, and John knew just how damn stubborn he could be when it came to looking after himself. Besides, John had to admit that it was much more comfortable like this than twisting his wrist at that awkward angle within the cuffs.

He moved away a little, careful not to disturb their hands, and glanced again at the sleeping man beside him. He looked so peaceful, his strange features relaxed and somewhat free of their usual intensity. John allowed himself to watch the other man for a moment, trying not to focus on how insanely beautiful he really was. He managed not to focus on it most of the time but every now and then he was caught off guard. Looking at Sherlock now no one could guess how amazing he was, how clever he was, what he was capable of. John sighed lightly and closed his eyes, wondering how he was going to talk Sherlock out of his experiment. He mentally rehearsed what he would say to convince Sherlock to come downstairs with him and find the key. It would all be fine.

Just then he felt Sherlock stir on the bed beside him and opened his eyes to find Sherlock's strange blue grey gaze focused on him, somehow loosing none of its intensity despite the fact that he had just woken up. For a moment neither of them said anything, and John was all too aware that they were still holding hands. He released Sherlock's immediately and cleared his throat.  
>"Good, you're up," John said, then felt his face turn bright red. "Awake, I mean," he clarified awkwardly, looking away and making a move to sit up.<p>

What was _wrong_ with him? Why did he have to make this more awkward than it already was? Sherlock smirked but said nothing, instead leaning over to retrieve his phone and check his messages.  
>"I have a message to call Lestrade as soon as possible," he said absently, still touching buttons on his phone. "It's already ten am- why did you let me sleep so late, John?"<br>But before John could give his reasons, Sherlock was on the phone to Lestrade. From what John could gather from the one sided conversation, Lestrade wanted them to come into the office. Good, he thought, now Sherlock would have no choice but to help him find the key and put an end to this ridiculous situation. Sherlock finished his phone call and rose from the bed, leaving John with little choice but to follow.  
>"Lestrade wants to see us immediately to follow up on the incident at the pool. There's also a new case that he wants our input on."<br>The words were spoken casually enough, but John could hear the glimmer of excitement that even Sherlock couldn't hide.

"Well come on then," Sherlock said, attempting to move towards the door.

John stared blankly at Sherlock and didn't budge.

"I'll admit that it's not ideal, but we do need to get a move on."  
>It took John a moment to realise that Sherlock had no intention to come downstairs and find the key. He couldn't help letting out a short bark of laughter at this.<br>"Just so I know, do you honestly think I'm leaving this flat in _these_ to do anything other than get the bloody key from downstairs?"  
>"Do I really need to explain my reasoning again?" Sherlock asked, clearly exasperated. "It's really quite straight forward and you know how I hate to repeat myself."<p>

John took a deep breath, his pre-rehearsed argument suddenly gone from his mind.

"Sherlock," he began in a voice of forced calm. "There is no way in hell that I am going to Scotland bloody Yard with us like this. People talk enough as it is! Can you imagine what they'll say?"

Sherlock observed him for a moment.

"Why do you care so much what people think, John?" he asked, sounding genuinely curious.

"I don't," John began, defensively. "It's just—"

Sherlock cut him off. "I know you don't like my experiment" – here John let out a snort of derision, which Sherlock ignored – "but I want you to know that I listened carefully to what you said last night and decided that you were right. I really think this will help us, John."

Sherlock's voice was surprisingly gentle, and he was staring straight into John's eyes with the same piercing glare that he sometimes used to get his point across. They held the eye contact until something within John broke. Sherlock was just too damn stubborn to argue with. John knew he would never win, so he abruptly decided that the next best thing would be to just go along with it. The sooner they got this over with, the sooner Sherlock would end this outrageous game. But the worst part was that John was sure Sherlock could pinpoint the exact second that he caved.

"Alright. Fine. Let's just do this," John replied, defeated and already feeling exhausted despite the decent night's sleep.

To Sherlock's credit, he did at least try to hide the triumph in his face.

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><p>John sat next to Sherlock in the cab, trying not to dwell on the strange looks the two of them had received just from leaving the flat and walking a few steps down the busy London street to hail a cab. He'd had trouble keeping up with Sherlock's enthusiastic strides and Sherlock had been forced to slow his pace slightly. <em>Team work<em>, John thought grimly. Getting ready for the day had certainly been...interesting. Though, if he was being honest, John was more likely to term it 'awkward as all hell'.

Sure, he'd gotten used to living in close, uncomfortable conditions when he was in Afghanistan, but taking a leak with his mad flatmate standing right beside him was something else entirely. He'd made Sherlock turn away and close his eyes, but John had found it hadn't much helped the situation. Showering or changing clothes had been rendered impossible by the barrier of the cuffs and John felt that he had to give Sherlock some credit for his dedication to the endeavour— he didn't think he'd ever before witnessed Sherlock not having showered first thing in the morning, let alone wearing the same clothes two days in a row. John's stomach did an uncomfortable flip as the cab pulled up outside Scotland Yard and Sherlock reached into his pocket to pay the fare. He wasn't at all sure that he was ready for this.

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><p>Reviews are love :)<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

John's stomach sank as he and Sherlock stepped out of the lift on Lestrade's floor at Scotland Yard. He was hoping beyond hope that Sally and Anderson would be out on a case somewhere, but instead they were loitering outside Lestrade's office. Of course, John thought as he realised that they hadn't seen either he or Sherlock since the encounter with Moriarty and probably wanted to hear the story first hand. Sherlock seemed to sense John's worries and gave his hand a quick reassuring squeeze. That was not helping, thought John, though somewhere within himself he _was_ oddly comforted by the gesture. That was until he witnessed the scoff from Anderson as he took in their situation with apparent delight.

"Finally decided to make it official then boys?" he said menacingly.

"The fact that your wife has finally left you doesn't mean that you should take your feelings out on those around you, Anderson," Sherlock retorted instantly, his face a perfectly smooth mask of indifference.

As always, he appeared completely unfazed by the sudden attention they were receiving from everyone in the vicinity. John bit back a grin at the look of shock on Anderson's face. Sure it was harsh, but John was rather of the opinion that Anderson should know better by now than to try to go up against Sherlock. However, the look that Sally was giving him wiped the traces of humour from his face pretty quickly. It was typical of her usual mix of worry, pity, and contempt. But this time there was an added element of shock, as though through all her warnings she hadn't actually believed John to be so well and truly under Sherlock's influence until now. John tried to smile reassuringly, tried to convey that it was okay really, that it was just another of Sherlock's mad games that wasn't to be taken too seriously. But she turned away before he could say anything.

The pair entered Lestrade's office and Sherlock closed to door behind them. John instantly felt better once he was in the privacy of the office, away from prying eyes, but again his relief was short-lived. Lestrade glanced up at them from his seat behind his desk as they entered, and raised his eyebrows.

"Care to explain?" he asked, gesturing to the cuffs that bound them, and taking a sip of the mug of coffee he held.

"We're experimenting," Sherlock explained in a deadpan tone.

Lestrade promptly choked on his coffee and proceeded to turn bright red. John buried his face in his free hand. The bastard was doing this on purpose.

"Not like that, Lestrade. Do get your mind out of the gutter, for god's sake."

Lestrade recovered sufficiently to look a little ashamed at his reaction, but an awkward silence ensued, and Sherlock didn't seem inclined to further elaborate on the purposes of the experiment. John cleared his throat.

"So, shall we...get down to business?" he asked the room.

Sherlock and Lestrade nodded their consent, and before long John and Sherlock were seated opposite the desk, making their statement about the night at the pool. John was proud of how steady his voice was as he told Lestrade about how Moriarty's black clad snipers had grabbed and silenced him part way down Baker Street and strapped the bomb vest to him, but he sensed Sherlock twitch ever so slightly beside him nonetheless. Sherlock took over and told Lestrade about the conversation with Moriarty, how Moriarty had left and they had removed the bomb vest, how he had fired at the bomb and grabbed John, forcing them both into the swimming pool and therefore escaping serious injury. And about how when they had finally managed to struggle out of the water, all traces of Moriarty and his men were gone, leaving only the burnt out pool complex and a swarm of emergency crew workers.

"So, now that we've regaled you with that intriguing tale, can we please get onto the details of the murder case?" Sherlock asked dryly when he and John had finished their account and Lestrade had written his notes.

John still wasn't sure whether Sherlock was annoyed or relieved that Moriarty had escaped without a trace. He felt sure that Sherlock was aware of just how dangerous Moriarty was, but another (and John suspected a larger) part of him was almost in awe of Moriarty's cleverness and ingeniousness. It bothered John for reasons beyond the obvious- ones that he couldn't quite place.

Lestrade scrutinised Sherlock for a moment then sighed deeply and launched into his explanation of the case. A high profile politician's wife had been found dead under suspicious circumstances in their high security Kensington townhouse. The husband had an iron clad alibi, making him an unlikely suspect. As of yet they had almost no leads, and a full search of the property had turned up no sign of a break and enter. Lestrade handed the file over to Sherlock with a strict warning that they needed to tread carefully here, because of the high profile nature of the victim's husband.

Sherlock balanced the file on his crossed legs, flipping through it with his free hand, asking Lestrade the occasional question, and commenting as he passed things to John that he found particularly noteworthy. John felt Lestrade watching them in a way that made him feel uncomfortable, but whenever he looked at him directly, the other man was glancing down at the paperwork on his desk, or sipping his second cup of coffee. He wondered if perhaps he was just letting his paranoia about what other people thought of him and Sherlock get the better of him. Why _did_ he care so much anyway? So what if they thought there was something going on between him and Sherlock. It wasn't as if they were right...was it?

"I think we have enough to be going on with for now," Sherlock informed Lestrade, pulling John from his internal struggle before he could get too carried away with that particular line of questioning.

Lestrade nodded as the two of them stood up in unison and prepared to leave.

"Just so I know, is this...experiment...going to be going on for long?" he asked, unable to keep a slight smile from his face.

"Well that all depends," Sherlock replied with a smirk as he and John headed for the door.

John just shook his head and gave Lestrade a somewhat apologetic smile as they left the room. Thankfully, Anderson seemed to have found some actual work to do, but John didn't miss Sally's disapproving shake of the head as she watched them disappear into the elevator.

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><p>John had succeeded in convincing Sherlock that they needed to take a break for lunch. They had left the flat without breakfast and had spent most of the morning in Lestrade's office, recounting the Moriarty encounter and reviewing the new murder case, and John felt his stomach growling in protest.<p>

"Look Sherlock, working as a team means that it has to work both ways," he had told him firmly. "I'm going along with your mad experiment, for whatever reason, but you need to learn to be a bit more adaptable."

Sherlock had turned to face him, sighing deeply as if it were all such an inconvenience, but had finally conceded to stop at a small cafe not far from Scotland Yard.

"You do seem awfully distracted, John," he had said disapprovingly. "Hopefully some food will enable you to focus a little more."

Of course, Sherlock wasn't eating and was instead staring at a point just past John's head, lost in his own world of thoughts and deductions. John was just finishing the last of his chips when Sherlock finally spoke.

"The question remains, how did the murderer manage to get past all those security measures without being seen, captured on surveillance or setting off an alarm," he murmured distractedly, almost to himself.

"You think it must have been an inside job?" John queried, and took a mouthful of his tea.

"The husband is hiding something, John, I'm sure of it. And we're going to find out what."

And with that he was on his feet again, clearly in the same state of agitation mixed with excitement that often accompanied a new mystery, but actually waited for John this time before attempting to move away. Maybe they would learn something from this after all, John thought. But he still had a bad feeling about this.

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><p>Reviews make me happy ^_^<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

As John and Sherlock left the cafe, with the plan to head to St Bartholomew's mortuary to examine the body, John wondered if his day could possibly get any more humiliating. Because now, in front of him, stood Sarah. _This cannot be happening_.

"John! What a surprise, it's good to see you," she said, smiling genuinely and placing her hand on John's shoulder.

"You too," John replied, managing to smile back.

Sherlock gave her a tight smile that did not meet his eyes, clearly frustrated at their work on the case being delayed once again.

John had managed a brief phone conversation with Sarah not long after the Moriarty incident, giving her a vague version of the facts and letting her know that he was fine but wouldn't be able to make it into the surgery for the next few days. She had been lovely, concerned, and understanding— even asking after Sherlock to make sure he was okay too. But just then, Sarah noticed the reason for the close proximity of the two men and raised her eyebrows, glancing at the cuffs.

"...Working on a case?" she queried, looking as though she wasn't sure whether to be confused or amused.

John was relieved to note that at least she didn't look particularly annoyed or judgemental.

"Precisely," Sherlock answered, before John got the chance. "We're actually on our way to St Bart's mortuary so we'd better be hurrying along, John."

He tried to move John further down the street, but John stood his ground

"Sherlock," John began in a tone of restrained calm that he hoped would act as the warning that he intended it to be.

_It's like dealing with a bloody child_.

"Sorry, Sarah, I..."

He stopped, sighed deeply, and ran his free hand through his hair.

"It's hard to explain."

Sarah glanced between the two of them, unsure.

"Well you're obviously busy, so I won't keep you. But call me when you can, John. I've been worried about you," she said softly, stroking John's arm affectionately.

John couldn't help but notice that Sherlock seemed to pay particular attention to the gesture, though his face remained an unreadable mask. And with that Sarah was gone, leaving John wishing that he'd explained himself and the situation better. _What must she be thinking? _But before he had time to muse further, Sherlock was pulling him insistently down the street, using his free arm to hail a taxi. John followed helplessly but felt his temper flare up dangerously.

"Sherlock, that was unbelievably rude," he said once they had awkwardly climbed into the back seat of a black cab that had pulled up.

Sherlock groaned, his frustration clearly still present.

"We don't have _time_ for this; we're on a case."

"Why do you hate Sarah?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I don't _hate _her, John, do grow up."

"Well you obviously have some kind of problem with her."

Sherlock stared out the taxi window. Evidently there was something he wasn't saying.

"What could you possibly have against..."

John stopped himself, having suddenly realised something, and Sherlock looked at him with a question on his face.

"Never mind," John said quickly, fighting back a smirk.

"What were you going to say?"

"Nothing, it's just...You don't like sharing your friends, do you, Sherlock?"

"Well, given that I've never had a friend before now, I really couldn't tell you," Sherlock retorted.

"You're...jealous...aren't you?"

Sherlock went back to staring out the window, and said nothing.

"Oh come on, just admit it," John teased. "You don't want me spending time with Sarah because it means that I'll have less time for _this _madness with you."

Sherlock scoffed at his words.

"That's ridiculous. Do you really think I'm that co-dependent, John? I managed just fine before I met you, you know" he retaliated, sounding annoyed.

John was momentarily stung but felt better when he realised a few seconds later that Sherlock's statement wasn't quite true. Sherlock had turned away once again, but John couldn't help noticing that he looked distinctly unnerved. Had he actually gotten it right for once? John wisely let the matter drop, and before he knew it the taxi was pulling up outside St Bart's Hospital. Being at St Bart's of course meant being confronted with yet another person they knew— Molly. John was starting to feel like he was destined for the two of them to run into absolutely everybody they knew today, and he absently wondered when Mycroft might show up to taunt them.

When they finally arrived at the mortuary, Molly looked up from the paperwork she was holding, her facial expression strange. It seemed at first to hold surprise, then pain, then contempt and something almost accusatory, before being quickly covered over with an unconvincing mask of cold indifference.

"Didn't expect to see you two here so soon," she said flatly.

_Ah_, thought John. _So she's heard then_.

"Cases to be solved, murderers to catch. You know how it is," Sherlock replied, clearly unfazed by Molly's chilly demeanour.

Molly said nothing and instead surveyed the two of them for a moment, only now noticing the handcuffs that bound them. She seemed to struggle with herself not to say anything but eventually her curiosity got the better of her.

"What's this all about then?"

"Experiment," Sherlock stated, and once again did not elaborate.

"Well you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" she replied bluntly.

Sherlock turned and fixed her with one of his stares but Molly didn't back down. John had to give her credit— he knew just how intimidating it could be to be on the receiving end of that piercing gaze.

"If you've got something to say to me, Molly, why don't you just say it?"

Molly held his gaze for a moment longer and then looked down at her feet.

"Did you know about Jim from IT?" she asked quietly.

Sherlock sighed and John could sense that he found the conversation pointless and that he wanted to get it over with so as quickly as possible so that they could examine the victim's body for clues. John wasn't sure whether he hoped that Sherlock would play nice. It had been apparent to him almost immediately that Molly had feelings for Sherlock and also that Sherlock was very capable of playing up to that fact to get what he wanted. Perhaps being harsh with her was the only way to make her see that she was never going to get what she wanted.

"Of course I didn't know," Sherlock replied tersely, almost angrily. He didn't like admitting when he hadn't worked something out straight away, and John knew that something within him was disappointed with himself for falling for Moriarty's act.

"Not that it would have mattered to you if you did. I should have realised that you don't care about anybody but yourself," Molly said, this time unable to keep the emotion out of her voice.

John raised his eyebrows at the accusation and looked at Sherlock who was standing very still beside him. Sherlock said nothing. John wondered whether Molly was more upset about Jim himself or about the fact that Sherlock was so apparently unconcerned that Molly had been 'dating' such a character.

"Well I hope you two will be very happy together," she said as she turned away, looking down at her paperwork to hide how upset she was.

John was unsure as to whether she was referring to himself and Sherlock, or to Sherlock and Moriarty. The silence hung heavily in the air for a moment.

"We need to examine the Cavendish body. If you would be so kind," Sherlock said, making an effort to keep his voice pleasant.

Molly shook her head as she let out a sigh of disbelief, and left the room, presumably to fulfil Sherlock's request.

"Well that was uncomfortable," John said, turning to Sherlock.

"Was it?"

John scoffed. "Surely even you can tell that she's upset."

"I must admit that it has been interesting watching people's reactions to my experiment."

"I don't think that's what she's upset about, Sherlock."

Sherlock watched John for a moment.

"It's almost certainly part of it," he stated simply, leaving John wondering if maybe Sherlock understood the situation better than he did after all.

Just then Molly re-entered the room pushing a steel gurney with the body on it, which she wheeled to them. John tried to catch her eye to smile understandingly but she left without a further word or glance at the two men. He watched her leave, feeling bad until Sherlock turned to him with a smile.

"Let's get down to business shall we?"

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